Hooligan and the Terrible, Horrible, Completely Voluntary Bramble Incident

There are certain things every dog owner learns to fear: a suspicious noise, a suspicious smell, and a suspicious silence.

Especially silence.

Silence is rarely good when you have puppies.

Clover and Hooligan were outside playing in the yard, and things had gotten quiet. Too quiet.

I was just about to go outside and check on them when Hooligan appeared at the back door and started crying. This, by itself, was not particularly alarming. Hooligan frequently believes that I should be outside with him. Apparently, my presence improves the entire outdoor experience.

I didn’t go through the back door. Instead, I went out through the garage.

Clover was lying on her bed.

That was my first clue.

She was fine. Perfectly fine, actually. But she had a strange look on her face. A very specific look.

I stopped. “Where’s Hooligan?”

Clover just stared at me.

“Hooligan?”

Nothing.

I called louder.

“Hooligan!”

From somewhere in the darkness came a whine.

Oh, crap.

I called again, and finally I saw movement.

Hooligan was attempting to walk toward me.

Attempting.

His head was down. His steps were slow and awkward, and when he finally reached me, he just stood there.

I lifted his head.

Brambles.

Small, nasty, vicious little brambles that bury themselves deep into fur and immediately work their way toward the skin.

They were on his head, his face, around his lips, inside his ears, his neck, his chest, his back, his belly, his legs, his tail, his feet, and his boy bits.

Everywhere.

There wasn’t a Hooligan so much as there was a large, sad, wheaten-brindle bramble bush with eyes.

I stared at him.

Then I looked at Clover.

Not. One. Bramble.

She was lying comfortably on her bed, completely untouched by the botanical apocalypse that had apparently consumed her brother.

And suddenly, I understood the look on her face.

Mom, you are NOT going to believe this one.

I still have no idea what he did. Did he roll in them? Dive into them? Crawl through them? Did some sort of teleportation experiment go horribly wrong and merge his molecules with those of a thorny plant?

There seemed to be no other reasonable explanation for the sheer coverage.

I got him into the garage and called Justin. Then I started removing brambles.

Thankfully, when you share your life with Irish Wolfhounds, you accumulate grooming equipment like you’re preparing to open a small salon. Brushes. Combs. Rakes. More brushes. Things I’m not entirely sure have names.

One of them worked remarkably well.

“Worked” being a generous term.

Mostly, I brushed and yanked.

For an hour.

And Hooligan was incredible.

He didn’t fight me. He didn’t wiggle. He didn’t complain. He didn’t even whine.

He stood quietly while I worked my way over his entire body. When I needed him to move, he moved. When I changed his position, he stayed there. Even when I worked around his face. Even inside his ears. Even around areas no gentleman wants aggressively brushed.

He trusted me completely.

As miserable as he looked, I couldn’t have been prouder of him.

Finally, after nearly an hour, I pulled out the last bramble.

Done.

My poor baby.

I kissed him, praised him, told him what a wonderful boy he’d been, and gave him bacon.

Hooligan was once again completely bramble-free.

And then he ran directly back into the brambles.

I watched him go.

At first, my brain simply refused to accept what my eyes were reporting.

No.

He’s not going there.

He’s just running in that direction.

He’s going to turn.

Any second now.

No.

No way.

He wouldn’t.

He was just—

Into the brambles he went.

On purpose.

ON PURPOSE.

“Oh, for flap’s sake.”

I turned around and walked into the house.

I did not care.

I had fulfilled my obligations as his mother. Whatever happened next was between Hooligan, the brambles, and God.

I lasted five minutes.

Because, of course, I did.

I went back outside looking for him.

He had brambles on him again.

Thankfully, this time he’d limited his horticultural adventure to his legs and chest. Apparently, some learning had occurred, although not enough to be useful.

Another five minutes of brushing and yanking, and Hooligan was once again bramble-free.

There would not be a third opportunity for personal growth.

I took him by the collar, walked him into the house, put him in his X-pen, turned off the light, sat down, and watched television.

Adventure time was over.

Hooligan had used up his “What are we doing today?” adventure coins for at least the next month.

The most ridiculous part is that I was—and still am—so proud of him.

He was such a good boy while I helped him. For an entire hour, that six-month-old puppy stood patiently while I pulled painful little things out of some of the most sensitive places on his body.

He trusted me. He understood I was helping him. He had the self-control to stand completely still until I was finished.

Which proves there is, in fact, a functioning brain somewhere inside Hooligan.

Unfortunately, it appears to be available only after he makes a decision.

Not before.

I once wrote a letter to the Brain Fairy on behalf of Clover when she was a puppy. At the time, I thought she needed help.

I owe Clover an apology.

Her little brother needs the Brain Fairy far more urgently.

In fact, I think his letter should probably be sent overnight.

Dear Brain Fairy,

Please check your records. I believe my brain may have been lost in shipping.

Love,
Hooligan

P.S. Do you have cookies?

EDIT: 8/27/26 at 9:57 p.m.

Botanical Apocalypse II: The Rebrambling

HOOLIGAN.

SIR.

You spent AN HOUR yesterday having the Botanical Apocalypse painstakingly removed from your enormous furry person.

Then you WENT BACK IN.

Got de-brambled AGAIN.

And now, less than 24 hours later:

“Mother. I have returned to the forest.”

Hooligan and the brambles are in a relationship.

I don’t understand it. Justin doesn’t understand it. Clover probably thinks it’s embarrassing.

But those two crazy kids keep finding their way back to each other.

Hooligan, buddy.

THE BUSHES ARE NOT YOUR FRIENDS.